Sunday, April 3, 2016

The trip home to see mom, away from the night shifts, then two back, then a few days off and the anniversary of father's passing. Thursday, a text from a co-worker. Hey, can you pick up tomorrow night for me? No, sorry, anniversary of my father. Friday, the anniversary, the boss calls around 2, Jeremy is under the weather, could you come in tonight. Well, no, I... I'll call you back, he says, and when he calls back, fortunately, 'celebrate your father...' he says. Then, Saturday, a text, the phone rings, early, another text. 'My friends want to throw me a bachelor party, I don't want to bother you, but could you let me know soon.' Jesus Christ.

Somewhere at the end of the anniversary, into the night, after transcribing a rough sketch of a poem about the comforts of nature on such days, I followed through with the thought to put up the Kirkus Indie review of the book I wrote and published in 2010, up on Facebook. Less than glowing, but to my reading took the dialog of a central passage of it, in which the character is conversing with his father about the philosophy behind liberal arts education, is misinterpreted, taken out of context, a poor and too-literal reading. Bad reviews carry their sting, their put off, their decree of the amateur quality of an effort. And sure, no writer is perfect, and it would be wrong if they were.

Eventually. such a review becomes amusing. The writer, whatever he is, shrugs things off and moves on, less robed of moral support. The Facebook community of friends, some distanced, some close, some geographically removed from closer exchange, is supportive.

Knausgaard is right. The struggle to write is part, an important part, of any work.

The strangeness of Monday, the last customers dragging out the night before, for what... Then down to talk with her, your therapist, about how you really feel... Then back, some paperwork, a nap, then make a hamburger in the iron skillet, a slice of onion, the last of the fresh spinach, and off to put on the show again of hospitality. Strange; might have been better if I'd just sat down and wrote for awhile.

About Me

Gandhi tells us to be the change we want to see in the world. I wanted to see a blog on writing. Not necessarily the craft stuff, the things you could learn in a classroom, but the basic matters (and mysteries) of creativity, depth and subject matter.
I am a veteran barman of Washington, DC. My novel, A Hero For Our Time, a modern retelling of Hamlet, is available on Amazon.com. (My thanks to Mr. Lermontov, God rest his soul, for allowing me to nod to his singular classic.)
What makes writing literature? Writing will always be an art form to honor.